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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034740">consecration.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_verity/pseuds/ace_verity'>ace_verity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DC Extended Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, but make it gay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:47:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,948</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034740</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_verity/pseuds/ace_verity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighth grade is when she should have been confirmed — should have chosen a sponsor and a name, should have stood in front of the bishop of Gotham to be declared a soldier for the Church and anointed with holy oil. She should have chosen a good Confirmation name, probably Maria to make her mother smile and to be a good daughter and a good sister and a good Catholic — pure and saintly and loving. </p><p>Helena is not pure. She is not saintly, and she doesn’t think she can ever love again.</p><p>So she chooses a different name, because she may not be pure or saintly or loving, but she knows herself to be fierce and brave and ruthless.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Helena Bertinelli/Dinah Lance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>consecration.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>inspired by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUB63iL3icA">religion</a> by lana del rey and a conversation with zoe. </p><p>cw: internalized homophobia (the catholic kind), some violence</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The cathedral is filled with golden sunlight, and the words of the priest echo off the marble, droning on and on. Helena’s feet ache from standing so long in her new shoes, and the collar of her dress itches, but she stays silent and watches as best she can. </p><p>“Giuseppe Francisco Bertinelli,” the priest says, even though it’s a big name for a baby, and Helena wants to correct him — <em> Just Pino, </em> she wants to say, but she’s four and a half and knows better than to talk in church.</p><p>“I baptize you in the name of the Father,” and Pino fusses when the water touches his head, his little face screwing up in displeasure, and by the third pour of water, he’s started to cry in earnest. He only quiets once the prayers are concluded and Babbo hoists Helena on his hip so that Pino can close his hand around her finger and blink up at her, eyes still teary and his dark tufts of hair plastered down by the holy water. </p><p>“See how he loves you, Helena?” Mama’s eyes are shining, crinkled at the edges. “Such a good big sister.”</p><p>Helena gives him a kiss on the forehead, because she wants nothing more than to be the <em> best </em>big sister, and she breathes in the familiar scent of baby powder and something different, like pine trees.</p><p>“Do you smell the <em> crisma?” </em> Babbo smiles at her. “When you were baptized, Mama wouldn’t put you down all day, she loved the smell so much.”</p><p>“I like it,” Helena decides, and Pino makes a happy burbling sound, tears forgotten.</p><p>The photographs from the day go in an album, and the white baptismal gown is tucked carefully away for the next Bertinelli — “A little sister?” Helena asks hopefully, and Mama smiles and tells her, “Or for your little ones someday,” even though that’s ages and ages away — but Helena still remembers the scent of the <em> crisma </em> and golden sunlight and the words of the priest: <em> In the water, we are made clean. </em></p><p> </p><p>They practice in the classroom every day for weeks leading up to it — lining up neatly, hands clasped, to receive a Ritz cracker in their palms. Helena spends an afternoon with her mother in the fancy shops downtown, trying on white dresses until she finds one that’s just right with gloves and a veil and new shoes to match, but she doesn’t feel ready, not even the night before when Mama comes to tuck her in, because it’s all her classmates have been talking about, and she’s heard that if you drop the host you’ll go to Hell and if your hands aren’t folded right the devil will chop your fingers off —</p><p>“Chop your fingers off?” Mama laughs gently. “Oh, <em> mia luce. </em>Don’t worry, darling, you’ll be wonderful. Have I ever told you the story of my First Communion?”</p><p>Helena shakes her head, sitting up against the pillows to listen.</p><p>“I spilled the wine all over my white dress, and I tried so hard not to cry, you know, but my grandmother tried to comfort me, saying that it was a sign that I’d be a saint — a martyr.”</p><p>“Really?” </p><p>“Really.” Mama gives her a soft smile. “I cried and cried, but now I can laugh. Don’t listen to those rumors, <em> mia luce. </em> God loves you, and He won’t let anything happen to you. Tomorrow is such a special day, Helena, and you are a special girl.”</p><p>So in the morning Helena puts on her white dress and white gloves, white socks with white lace and shiny white shoes, and she sits with the other girls and listens to the priest and when it’s her turn she walks slowly up the aisle, hands folded just right. The host is sweet, dissolving on her tongue, and she clasps the chalice with both hands and drinks despite the bitter taste. Not a drop spills onto her dress, but when she sinks back into the pew and kneels, Helena sees a faint bloom of red wine on her right glove, in the middle of her palm, and she presses her hands tight together and doesn’t say a word about it — but she remembers her mother's story, and wonders what it could mean.</p><p> </p><p>“Who d’you think was the cutest?” one of the girls asks when they’re in the cafeteria on Monday, still giddy from the excitement of cards and gifts and party cake with their families, and the others chime in, chattering about the boys dressed up in their suits over the weekend — but Helena stays silent. She hadn’t been paying attention, really, though she knows that someday she’ll have to start. </p><p>“Like a little bride,” one of her aunts had cooed when she’d seen Helena after the Mass, adding, “Soon enough you’ll be wearing white for your wedding,” and Helena had made a face without thinking and everyone had laughed. </p><p>But then she’s eight, nine, ten years old, and the other girls in her class talk about their crushes and Helena just — doesn’t understand. Boys don’t interest her, not one bit, but at a birthday party she’s playing Truth or Dare, and the others are chatting about which boy in their class they’d rather kiss, and Helena says without thinking, “I don’t want to kiss anyone in our class.”</p><p>“But you have to choose,” one of the girls insists, and Helena shrugs. </p><p>“I’d rather kiss a girl,” she says, and she says it as a joke but regrets it as soon as the words leave her mouth, because everyone falls silent and looks at her funny, and her stomach twists, and after she goes home for the night she can’t stop wondering if it’s true. </p><p>It <em>can’t</em> be, because Helena Bertinelli is a good daughter and a good sister and a good Catholic, and she can’t be any of those things if she’s a lesbian — <em>lesbian,</em> that’s a new word, and it feels bitter and wrong in her mind, but she can't put it out of her thoughts no matter how hard she tries.</p><p> </p><p>“It has been a month since my last confession, and these are my sins,” Helena says. The confessional is musty, and the priest’s face is hidden by a screen. She can hear her own heartbeat. “I teased my brother. I thought mean things about other people. I was jealous of one of the girls in my class. And I —” The breath catches in her throat, and she says it in a rush. “I like girls and not boys.”</p><p>It’s the first time she’s said it out loud. Her palms are sweaty, clasped together tightly, and even though the priest can’t see her face, Helena’s terrified that somehow he’ll <em> know </em> who she is.</p><p>“Unnatural desires are from the devil, but God gives us grace to overcome them,” he says. “Pray a rosary every day, and Our Lady will help you.”</p><p>Relief floods her, and she finishes the prayers in a daze; as soon as she gets home, she closes her bedroom door and kneels beside her bed, First Communion rosary in hand. Helena counts off beads, careful not to make any errors, and prays to be made clean.</p><p>She does it the next day, and the day after that, and then on the fourth day she has her rosary in the pocket of her school uniform skirt so that she can pray as soon as she gets home — but there are strange men in her living room, her whole family is there, and the beads dig into her leg, pressed between the carpet and her skin, and she can’t move, pinned to the ground by the weight of her mother’s still body. In the silence that follows, Helena prays without speaking, not knowing if she’s praying to live or to die.</p><p>There’s blood on the rosary, rusty and dried onto the smooth pearl beads. It flakes off onto her fingertips, and Helena sits on the edge of a motel room bed hours from Gotham, hours from home, and tries to remember the words — but she keeps getting stuck on <em> Avi Maria. </em></p><p><em> Now and at the hour of our death, </em> she thinks. There is blood on her hands, like wine on pure white silk, and she wonders why she couldn’t be a martyr too.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a chapel at the bottom of the hill, on the outskirts of the village, and it’s as far from the house as Luca will let Helena go alone. The men who’ve taken her in don’t have much to offer her apart from a tattered English-language Bible from the school in town, and Helena takes it with her. The rosary is in her pocket, and she tangles it around her fingers as she walks. It’s pristine once more — she’d woken up the first morning after, in that motel room, to find it resting on the nightstand where she’d left it, except there had been no trace of blood, not even in the ridges where metal meets pearl. She’d never thanked Sal, not for saving her and not for cleaning it, because she can't bring herself to feel truly grateful for either deed.</p><p>Her footsteps echo on the flagstones, and Helena breathes in mustiness and the faint smell of incense. Candles flicker along the wall, and the afternoon sun filters through the stained-glass windows, creating a mosaic of color against the stone walls. The air is cool and utterly silent, and for the first time since she’s left Gotham, Helena feels a sense of familiarity, of home. </p><p>She traces her hand along the walls, along the tops of the pews, and finds herself at the stand of candles. There’s a statue in the center of the rickety table, a figurine of the Virgin Mary cloaked in dark blue, and Helena reaches for it on instinct — it’s warm to the touch, colors vivid and alive. But Mary’s hands aren’t outstretched as they normally are in the statues of her that Helena's seen before, and tears trail down her cheeks, grief etched onto her features as clearly as if she’s a living person.</p><p>Her heart sits atop her breast, blood-red and pierced by seven tiny silver blades and flaming at the top. <em> Madonna Addolorata </em> says an inscription along the bottom, and Helena memorizes it, repeating it, turning it over in her mind like a touchstone all the way back up the hill once she’s prayed her rosary for the souls of Mama and Babbo and Pino, and she finds out from Sal that <em> Madonna Addolorata </em> means <em> Our Lady of Sorrows. </em></p><p>A month passes, then two, and after nightmares and silent tears Helena is tired of sorrows, tired of the swords in her heart. One afternoon, she leaves behind the Bible and the rosary when she walks to the chapel, a box of crayon stubs in one hand and a blank piece of paper in the other, and she draws from memory five armed men under the watchful gaze of <em> Madonna Addolorata </em> and imagines wrenching the swords from her own heart and wielding them against her family’s killers.</p><p>She is tired of sorrows, and so Sal takes her into the garden and shows her how to aim a crossbow and directs her to shoot at an old target dummy. Her first shot lands a bolt off-center, in the dummy’s shoulder, and even though her arm aches with the effort of keeping the weapon aloft, Helena takes a deep breath and looks at Sal.</p><p>“I want to try again,” she says, and when she finally puts a bolt right through the dummy’s chest, she lets her arm fall to her side and looks at her handiwork.</p><p>Helena smiles, smiles for the first time in weeks, and aims again — aims for the heart.</p><p> </p><p><em> God works in mysterious ways, </em> Helena had been told growing up, and she wonders sometimes if this is how He’d answered her prayers for purity — by giving her a mission. She still doesn’t think about boys, but neither does she think of girls, not anymore, because nothing will distract her from avenging her family. Her hands learn to count bolts and blades instead of rosary beads, and she reads the Old Testament stories of vengeance and wrath.</p><p><em> Your brother’s blood is crying out to me from the ground, </em> she reads over and over, the words etched into her memory and burning in her gaze, and her fingers close around the matchbox car in her pocket.</p><p> </p><p>She turns fifteen and hears church bells ringing from the village two months later — not for Easter and not for any feast day that she can remember, and in between huffs of air and dodging her punches in their daily sparring practice Sal tells her that the bishop has come to the village to celebrate the Confirmation of all the children in the village. He looks vaguely apologetic as he says it, probably realizing that Helena would have received the sacrament already, but Helena doesn’t say anything, just straightens up and asks to go another round. </p><p>She thinks about it as she lies in bed that night. Eighth grade is when she should have been confirmed — should have chosen a sponsor and a name, should have stood in front of the bishop of Gotham to be declared a soldier for the Church and anointed with holy oil, the <em> crisma, </em> and her breath catches in her throat at the fuzzy, faded memory of sunlight in a cathedral and her family all around. She should have chosen a good Confirmation name, probably Maria to make her mother smile and to be a good daughter and a good sister and a good Catholic — pure and saintly and loving. </p><p>Helena is not pure. She is not saintly, and she doesn’t think she can ever love again.</p><p>So she chooses a different name, because she may not be pure or saintly or loving, but she knows herself to be fierce and brave and ruthless. </p><p>She chooses the name <em>Huntress,</em> and there’s no <em>crisma</em> to anoint her forehead, only blood and sweat, and the only laying on of hands she receives is when she fails to block a punch from Sal, but the fire of rage in her blood burns fierce enough to be a sacrament in itself.</p><p> </p><p>Helena clamps her hands over her ears and watches as a tide of pure sound scatters away Sionis’s men and she remembers a story like this — a trumpet blast and a shout bringing down the walls of Jericho. </p><p><em> Miraculous, </em> she thinks, even though she knows that the world is filled with all sorts of powers far beyond the stories in the Bible. It’s still unlike anything she’s seen before, and she’s awestruck — but then the sound fades, and the miracle ends as Canary stumbles and slumps to the ground, and Helena moves by instinct to her side. She hesitates for a split-second, hands hovering inches above the woman’s body, but the adrenaline is still pumping through her veins and she knows there’s no time to lose. </p><p>So she tucks one arm behind Canary’s shoulderblades and the other under her knees and lifts, standing in one fluid motion, and she’s careful — careful not to drop her, careful not to pinch or scrape or bruise her — and Helena carries her to the convertible and sets her down as gently as she can. </p><p>“I got her,” the cop tells Helena, “go after Quinn.”</p><p>It feels wrong to leave, since her hands feel empty now, but Helena just nods and grabs her helmet, and by the time the sun comes up she’s covered in scrapes and bruises and drying blood and filled with a strange mix of pride and numbness now that her mission is over at last. Helena takes the margarita she’s handed by Harley Quinn and shares a plate of tacos with Canary — Lance, she reminds herself, Dinah Lance — and the sun shining through the colorful windows casts stained-glass patterns over the table as the cop talks about a new mission, a higher purpose, and looks between them for their agreement. </p><p>It’s Sunday morning, and this isn’t the kind of communion she’s used to — especially not once Quinn drives off with Canary’s car — but there’s something sacred to it all the same. </p><p> </p><p>She goes to Mass for the first time since she left Sicily, on a Saturday evening in a church a few blocks from her new apartment, but when she looks around, she feels out of place amid all these normal people going about their normal lives — elderly women with Bibles and prayer cards, young couples toting diaper bags and coloring books for their toddlers, tired mothers with their teenagers.</p><p>It doesn’t feel right to be among them like this, pretending to be one of them, and when she fumbles over the new responses and slips into Sicilian for some of them, she earns strange looks that make her face burn with equal parts shame and anger. Helena folds her hands in the communion line tight enough to make her knuckles go white, and she whispers <em> Amen </em> when the priest places the host in her palm and again when the minister holds out the chalice. She takes it with both hands, reverentially, and only lets a tiny trickle past her lips — enough to fill her mouth with bitterness, and nothing more. </p><p>She sits in the pew alone long after the organ plays its final note and the congregation has filed out. The light in the confessional is on, and every few minutes a parishioner leaves and another takes their place. Helena feels the rosary in her pocket resting against her leg, but she doesn’t take it out, just gazes ahead at the bloodied Christ on the cross above the altar and the stained glass lighting bleeding color onto the faded carpet and tries to work up the courage for a confession, her first one since she’d left Gotham. <em> Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, </em> she would have to say, <em> it has been fifteen years since my last confession, and in that time I’ve killed a dozen men, and I’m not sorry for it, because the blood was crying out from the ground and no just God would let murderers go unpunished.  </em></p><p>And she thinks about her last confession fifteen years ago, admitting <em> I like girls and not boys, </em> and she wants to laugh at the memory — but she can’t, and she doesn’t know why, and something twists unpleasantly in her mind as she starts to wonder —</p><p>But then her phone buzzes in her pocket with a message from Renee about a new lead, and Helena stands abruptly, grateful for the distraction, and pushes the thought from her mind as best she can.</p><p> </p><p>The first time it happens, she blames it on the alcohol.</p><p>They’re all at Dinah’s place, tired but still wide awake after a successful night of fighting crime, and they order takeout and bitch about the state of the city and the crappy movie playing on TV. Helena doesn’t usually have more than one drink, but once her wineglass is empty she lets Dinah refill it — just one more, she tells herself, but every time Dinah offers a full glass, Helena reaches out and takes it with both hands, careful not to spill on the sofa or on herself, and she tries not to look too long at the place where Dinah's top doesn’t quite meet the waist of her pants because every time she does her face burns with shame. <em> If your eye causes you to sin, cut it out, </em> says the Bible, but Helena couldn’t aim her crossbow without her eyes, and so she tries her best to fix her gaze on the ceiling or the TV or the wall, and every few minutes when she meets Dinah’s eye Helena sees softness and humor in her expression and the shame sears her like acid — Dinah is her friend, maybe her first ever, and her teammate, and it seems wrong to look at her like that even though Helena’s never seen anyone more mesmerizing — and she has to take a sip of wine to hide it. </p><p>By the time Renee goes quiet, intent on the television, and the second bottle of wine is down to the dregs, Helena still isn’t drunk, not really. But she’s warm, warm enough to feel the flush in her cheeks, and her fingertips are pleasantly tingly, and the light from the lamp by the couch has a halo around it that doesn’t go away when Helena blinks hard. She has to squint to make out the time — late, she realizes, and straightens up too fast and almost overbalances.</p><p>But Dinah steadies her. “Hey, whoa,” she laughs, and Helena’s suddenly aware of Dinah’s hand on her shoulder, adorned with rings — all of them different, unique, and glinting in the dim light. “Where are you going, Killer?”</p><p>“I should go home,” she says, but all the energy from earlier seems to drain away at once, and suddenly she’s drowsy.</p><p>“You think I’m letting you on your bike like this? Think again. Same goes for you,” she adds, glancing at Renee, who grumbles disagreeably.</p><p>“Last time I slept in this armchair it fucked up my neck for a week.”</p><p>“Yeah? You can take the couch, then, grandma.”</p><p>“Fuck you,” Renee says automatically. “Thanks, Canary.”</p><p>“You alright with the bed?”</p><p>It takes a moment for Dinah’s question to register, long enough that Dinah offers, “I can sleep on the floor, if you’re not —”</p><p>“No!” Helena says too quickly — it wouldn’t be polite to make Dinah sleep on the floor, and even though her head is still a little fuzzy, her mother’s instructions in proper manners are clear as day. “No, that’s — I’m fine.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>And that’s how Helena finds herself in borrowed nightclothes, the aftertaste of red wine still sweet in her mouth — better than communion wine, so much better, and Helena wonders if the difference is in the wine itself or in the way Dinah had poured it out in front of her and held out the glass and watched as Helena took her first sip and then brought her own glass up to her lips, her throat moving as she swallowed, and an imprint of full lips left behind on the rim of the glass that had made Helena wonder what it would be like to drink from the same cup, to place her lips against the outline of Dinah's —</p><p>Helena bites the inside of her cheek. <em> Stop it, </em> she tells herself, and words swirl in her mind, words like <em> temptation </em> and <em> impurity </em> and <em> unnatural, </em> words that make something cold and sharp twist painfully in her chest. </p><p>She should have slept on the floor. She should have left. She should have gone back to Sicily after finishing her mission, maybe moved into a convent and spent the rest of her life in silence and prayer and desperation that she’d be forgiven —</p><p>“You good, H?” Dinah yawns, shuffling to the bed and tugging the sheets back, and gives Helena an expectant look. “Not gonna be sick, are you?”</p><p>“No, I’m fine,” Helena says instead of <em> I need to leave, </em> and she gets in bed instead of heading for the door and feels the mattress dip beside her, closes her eyes and hears the <em> click </em> of Dinah turning off the bedside lamp and her quiet sigh of contentment. </p><p>“Night, H.”</p><p>“Goodnight,” Helena whispers, because her throat aches and she couldn’t speak louder if she tried. The warmth she’d felt moments ago is curdling into something sour, and she wonders briefly if she <em> is </em>going to be sick after all, so she swallows hard and breathes evenly and doesn’t move a muscle — lies rigid on the mattress, aware of every brush of the sheets on her skin. It’s too late to leave, now that she’s committed to it, and Dinah’s right that Helena can’t drive like this. </p><p>She holds herself still and thinks that if she does so all night, she’ll be alright. It would have been rude to leave, and rudeness is a sin too, so really, Helena thinks she’s made the right call, as long as she doesn’t move and doesn’t touch, doesn’t <em> ever </em> touch, and doesn’t look —</p><p>She <em> won’t look — </em></p><p>Helena risks a glance, just a glance — long enough to take in Dinah’s parted lips and slow breathing, the smudge of mascara at the corner of her eye and the way her arm is tucked underneath the pillow, and when she shifts and sighs Helena snaps her gaze back up to the ceiling and squeezes her eyes shut. </p><p>There’s no way she’ll be able to sleep, and the minutes stretch out into an eternity, but still she doesn’t dare move. Helena wonders how she can possibly make it until morning like this, wonders whether this is a temptation or a punishment or both somehow, and she considers whether she’s sober enough to just leave now —</p><p>and then she’s blinking awake to sunlight streaming through the window. Her temples pulse faintly with a headache, enough to disorient her, and she’s more comfortable than she remembers being in years, even though the mattress is softer than she’s used to and something’s tickling her nose and the sheets smell unfamiliar yet pleasant, like citrus and laundry soap. Helena buries her face deeper into the pillow, closing her eyes again, but then the mattress shifts and she realizes where she is, who she’s next to, and she’s wide awake. </p><p>She jerks back, scrambling to the edge of the bed and whacking her ankle off the bedpost in the process, and Helena bites back a curse — but it’s no use. Dinah stirs, squinting at her.</p><p>“The hell are you doing?”</p><p>“I, um.” Helena doesn’t know if she should look at Dinah, not when her heart’s still pounding and her skin is tingling with the memory of Dinah’s warmth, so she fixes her gaze on the wall to the left of Dinah’s head. “I have to go.”</p><p>“It’s fucking…” Dinah glances at her alarm clock, the vintage kind that Helena hasn’t seen since she left Sicily. “Seven in the damn morning. You’re leaving already?”</p><p>“I need to…” She doesn’t know what she needs to do. “Work out,” she finishes lamely, and from the look on Dinah’s face she doesn’t buy the excuse.</p><p>“Alright,” Dinah says, but her brow is crinkled in confusion and for a moment she looks almost sad, and Helena doesn’t know why. But then it’s gone, replaced by her usual dry humor as she flops down against the pillows and sighs. “Try not to wake Renee, she’s a bitch when she’s tired. Text me when you get home, you hear?”</p><p>“Okay,” Helena says. “Thanks for — for letting me stay.”</p><p>“No problem.” For a minute it looks like Dinah’s going to say something else, but then she just gives Helena a half-smile and nods at her. “You driving home in my pajamas?”</p><p>So Helena changes into last night's clothes in the bathroom and leaves the borrowed shirt and shorts on the coffee table. Through the bedroom door, half-ajar, she can make out Dinah’s form under the comforter, and Helena can’t tell if she’s awake or asleep. </p><p>Either way, Dinah doesn’t say anything more, and Helena closes the door behind herself and wonders if leaving like this means that she’s saved or condemned.</p><p>She does her best to keep busy for the rest of the day, cleaning her apartment and polishing her crossbow and counting her bolts — anything to keep her mind busy, because the second she goes idle all she can think about is the night before, and the memory of it makes her heart flutter even as her stomach twists with shame. She goes for a run until her chest is burning and her legs feel numb underneath her, and when she passes the church closest to her apartment she keeps her eyes trained forward and picks up her pace.</p><p><em>It must have been the wine,</em> Helena thinks, and she tries to put it out of her mind.</p><p> </p><p>But then it happens again and again and again — Helena can’t stop herself from noticing the dancing gleam in Dinah’s eyes when she’s teasing Renee, the grace of her movements in a fight, the soft curve of her mouth, the way her Black Canary suit accentuates her figure. She catches herself looking far too often, and every time, she manages to tear her gaze away before Dinah can see her looking — at least, she hopes she does.</p><p>It’s always followed by a wash of guilt that doesn’t quite overpower the tantalizing desire to look again, to look longer, and soon every time Dinah touches her — a companionable nudge or a hand extended after they spar or the brush of their legs side-by-side in a dingy bar — Helena’s mouth goes dry and her breath hitches, and she can’t stop <em> thinking </em> about it.</p><p>One night a fight leaves her with a few more scrapes and bruises than normal and Dinah insists on dabbing ointment on the cuts, a furrow of concern and concentration between her eyebrows all the while and her lip caught between her teeth as she focuses. Helena feels like she’s going to combust from the closeness, and yet when Dinah steps back with a satisfied nod the distance is somehow even worse.</p><p>Once Helena’s back in her apartment, she draws her old rosary out of its place in the drawer of her nightstand and tries to clear her mind, focusing on the words as she begins to pray, letting them fill her mind and push aside all the distractions of the world. </p><p>But her lips form the words — <em>full of grace — </em>and she thinks of Dinah’s easy half-smiles and nimble hands and lithe movements — <em>blessed among women —</em> she thinks of amber eyes and the warmth of her touch, imagines what it might be like to feel soft lips against her own and lace their fingers together and —</p><p>She’s grasping the rosary beads hard enough to leave indents in her skin that hurt like bruises, and Helena drops them with a clatter back in the drawer and tamps down the ache in her chest.</p><p>Her dreams that night are muddled, impressions of warmth and laughter and soft touches, and she wakes the next morning in tangled sheets and wonders what the dreams mean, and what it means that she didn’t want them to end.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not very damn subtle, you know.”</p><p>Helena frowns. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Come on.” Renee snorts. “You’ve been mooning over Canary for weeks, and you think I haven’t noticed?”</p><p>Suddenly the club is too loud, too bright, and Helena feels her stomach churn. “I’m not — I don’t — Don’t say that.”</p><p>“Why not? ‘S true. The tension’s killing me, Crossbow, you two just need to —”</p><p><em> “Stop.” </em> It comes out louder than she’d wanted, loud enough to draw a few curious glances, and Renee raises her eyebrows, the teasing humor disappearing from her face.</p><p>“Sorry, Helena, I thought — It’s not anything to be ashamed of.”</p><p><em> Yes it is, </em> Helena wants to say, but she just fixes her gaze on the table. It doesn’t matter, though, because Renee just makes a knowing noise.</p><p>“It’s not.” Her voice is firm. “Is that what’s bugging you? Good old-fashioned Catholic guilt? You’ve killed how many people, and you’re worried about this?”</p><p>Helena doesn’t respond, but her silence seems to be answer enough.</p><p>“Jesus.” Renee sighs and takes another sip of her drink. “Sorry, kid. Shit sucks.”</p><p>“How do you know?” Helena mutters, knowing that she sounds petulant and not really caring.</p><p>“How do I know? I’ve been there. Took me years to get past thinking I was going to hell if I so much as looked at another girl. My family never did.” Renee says it dispassionately, and she shrugs. “It’s all bullshit. You’ll spend your whole life miserable thinking that way. Trust me.”</p><p>“So you’re…"</p><p>"A lesbian? Yeah. You're allowed to say it, you know," she adds, a glint of amusement in her eyes, and then she raises her eyebrows. “You didn’t know that already? The fuck did you think I’m doing when I spend weekends at Ellen’s?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Helena says defensively, starting to blush again, but Renee just laughs. </p><p>“You’re something else. Listen,” Renee says, leaning forward and holding Helena’s gaze, “you’ve been through a lot of shit in your life. You deserve to be happy, and so does she.” She nods at the door off the side of the stage, where Dinah had disappeared to get ready for her set. “Won’t do you any good to keep pulling away and beating yourself up.”</p><p>Helena nods, her throat feeling oddly constricted even as a weight seems to lift from her chest, and Renee nods back, evidently satisfied. The lights start to dim, and the crowd goes quiet in anticipation of Dinah’s performance — it’s her first gig at this club, and already the venue is clearly far better than the Black Mask. </p><p>Helena’s breath catches when Dinah takes the stage — she’s stunning, radiating confidence as she greets the crowd, and then the music starts and she begins to sing. It’s like nothing Helena’s ever heard before, somehow more awe-inspiring than the Canary Cry itself is. Dinah’s voice is soothing and strong all at once, and Helena drinks in the melody.</p><p>Helena can’t take her eyes off Dinah, and she doesn’t want to — so she watches, and when Dinah meets her gaze for a brief second with a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth, Helena expects the familiar shame to well up and force her gaze away.</p><p>But it doesn’t come.</p><p> </p><p>Dinah doesn’t use her powers unless it’s absolutely necessary — in the time since they’d formed the Birds of Prey, Helena can count on one hand the number of times that she’s witnessed the Canary Cry. It never gets any less impressive, though, and tonight is no exception — Helena covers her ears just in time and watches in awe as the waves of sound overpower their opponents. She manages to catch Dinah before she hits the ground, holstering her crossbow to free both hands and taking pride in the fact that she doesn’t stumble in the slightest from the extra weight in her arms. </p><p>She should be used to this by now — by some unspoken agreement, it’s become her job to get Dinah to the car when she’s unconscious like this, mostly because Renee’s too short to manage it, not that Helena would ever point that out to her. So the closeness shouldn’t make her heart race and stutter, shouldn’t fill her with warmth, shouldn’t make her hyper-aware of every detail of Dinah’s features — it’s nothing new, after all — but it still does.</p><p>“Keep an eye on her, will you?” Renee asks once they’re back at their warehouse headquarters and Dinah still hasn’t woken up. “I got some cleanup to do.”</p><p>“Is there anything I should do for her?” Helena casts a glance over at the sofa, noting Dinah’s stillness, her only movement being the slight rise and fall of her chest, and feels a wave of anxiety welling up inside her. Dinah’s usually awake by now, groggy but conscious, but tonight she’s silent.</p><p>But Renee waves her off. “Nah, she’ll be alright. Just keep her company.”</p><p>So Helena pulls a chair over next to the couch and waits, cataloging every breath and hint of movement. She feels exhaustion weighing on her limbs, making her eyelids heavy and sharpening the dull soreness of the fresh bruises on her skin, but she resists the urge to sleep. If something happens, if Dinah needs her, she’ll be alert, ready — Helena can keep watch, for no matter how long.</p><p>The silence of the night rests over them, broken only by the faint noise of distant sirens and speeding cars, like something holy — not to be disturbed. Minutes pass, then hours, but Helena doesn’t dare move or speak or look away. Here, in the dim silence, Helena doesn’t look away, and she thinks all at once with an ache in her chest — <em> She’s beautiful. </em> </p><p>And maybe she’s known all along, but now the thought feels right; there’s no guilt in it, no shame, just truth. </p><p>“Hey.” Dinah’s voice is raspy as she blinks into consciousness, and she watches Helena with half-lidded eyes and a tiny smile on her face. </p><p>“Hi.” Helena hadn’t noticed her wake. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Like shit,” she answers dryly, and Helena’s concern must be clear on her face because Dinah adds, “I’ll be fine. Nothing I’m not used to.”</p><p>“Okay.” This is where she should offer to make tea or fetch a blanket, but somehow the words elude her when Dinah’s looking at her like this, unguarded and trusting and amused.</p><p>“How long was I out?”</p><p>"Couple hours," Helena tells her.</p><p>“And you’ve been sitting here watching me this whole time? Damn, Killer.”</p><p>Helena looks away, her face going warm. “Sorry.”</p><p>“No, I think it’s sweet.” There’s no hint of teasing, not anymore, just honesty, and Dinah sits up so that they’re eye to eye, not even a foot apart. “You’re sweet, Helena, you know that?”</p><p>“I…” Helena’s at a loss for words, because Dinah says it with certainty even though Helena doesn’t think that <em>sweet </em> is the right word for her. She searches her mind for the right response, but there’s no prayer or ritual for this — which is why she says, “I like looking at you.”</p><p>Helena regrets it instantly — it sounds so much <em> worse </em> out loud than in her head — and she looks away, fixing her eyes on a spot on the floor, and waits for Dinah to pull back or make a face. But instead she feels a feather-light touch to her chin, guiding her to look back up. Dinah’s eyes are warm, bright as embers through the darkness, and she doesn’t pull her hand away once Helena’s met her gaze.</p><p>“Hey,” she murmurs. “Tell me if you like this, too.”</p><p>And then she leans closer and kisses Helena. </p><p>She’d imagined it without even knowing, and it’s somehow even better than any of her expectations, despite the fact that Dinah draws away after just a moment, eyes searching Helena’s face. “Well?” she asks, her eyes crinkled at the corners.</p><p>“I like that too,” Helena manages, and Dinah’s smile is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen as she says, voice low and sweet, “Good. So do I.”</p><p>Her heart is pounding in pure euphoria, and Helena could sing and dance and shout from the rooftops — but instead she just leans down for another kiss, and thinks that it’s better like that anyway. </p><p> </p><p>Helena was taught reverence from an early age — not to talk in church, always to bow in front of the altar and fold her hands in the communion line and take the host and chalice with both hands — and so she knows that some things, like ancient relics and the golden monstrance shaped like the sun, are too holy to touch. </p><p>Her hands hover not even an inch above Dinah’s skin, close enough that she can feel Dinah’s warmth radiating out — but she can’t quite close the distance, because how can her attempts at veneration give Dinah even a fraction of what she deserves? Helena’s hands have known nothing but violence for so long; how could they possibly be fit for something like this?</p><p>“Hey,” Dinah whispers, coasting her palms down Helena’s bare arms and taking Helena’s hands in her own, pressing them together as if in prayer and bringing them to her lips. She kisses the spot where Helena’s fingertips come together, her eyes dark and intent on Helena’s all the while, and guides Helena’s right hand to rest over her heart, and Helena can feel her heart beating, steady and strong.</p><p>“It’s just me, baby,” Dinah tells her, and she leans up to press a kiss against the crook of Helena’s neck, leaving behind a tingling warmth, and says softly, “I trust you.”</p><p>And she smiles, a beautiful gentle smile, and it gives Helena courage and faith and all the virtues she could ever need. </p><p>It’s raining outside, a late summer storm sweeping over the city and pounding a ceaseless rhythm that fills the room, the curtains swaying gently in the breeze from the open window. Helena breathes in the scent of the rain and the scent of citrus and laundry soap and something clean and woody, like pine trees, new and utterly familiar all at once, like a distant memory just out of reach. Helena bows her head down to brush her lips against smooth skin and learns a new way to worship here on her knees, in this bedroom sanctuary with rumpled sheets instead of altar cloths and no holy water but the rain outside, and with every touch Helena feels herself absolved, made clean, made new.</p><p> </p><p>It’s something about love, Helena thinks, what is it again? <em> No greater love — No greater love than to lay down your life for someone, </em> that’s it. She remembers it from Easter homilies and from her first weeks in Sicily and the nightmares of her mother taking a round of bullets for her, and she thinks of it now, too, because she doesn’t regret taking the knife that was aimed for Dinah. She doesn’t regret it, even though it hurts more than anything she’s felt in her life, especially when Dinah’s pressing down on it so hard to slow the bleeding, because — well, there’s no greater love than this, or at least that’s what the Bible says.</p><p>Helena doesn’t know how big the wound is, or how deep, just that it’s under her ribcage and that there’s enough blood to make everything feel sticky. No water, though; she thinks she heard something about that in church growing up — blood and water coming out of a stab wound. Or maybe there is and she can’t see it.</p><p>She tries to ask if there is, but her voice isn’t working right so Dinah probably doesn’t hear and then Renee hits a pothole head on and curses and Dinah curses too and Helena’s vision whites out with pain.</p><p>She can hear Dinah speaking to her, urgent and fearful, and she doesn’t like it when Dinah’s upset so she opens her eyes, and Dinah comes into focus above her. She’s haloed in light, like an angel from heaven only inches away, and Helena wonders if she’s going to die. People see angels when they die, so maybe that means she’s going to die. They should find a priest, if she’s going to die, to anoint her and give her confession even though she can’t talk.</p><p>She doesn’t want to die, even if there is no greater love according to the Bible. According to the Bible, it’s a sin that she loves Dinah, but Helena knows that that just isn’t true, because Dinah is beautiful like an angel, or maybe she is an angel, but people see angels when they die, so does that mean —</p><p>“You’re not gonna die, Helena,” Dinah tells her. “You just stay with me, you hear?”</p><p>Helena doesn’t think she could ever disobey a commandment like that, especially not when Dinah gives her a kiss on the forehead without ever moving her hands away from Helena’s side, and Helena knows right then and there that she doesn’t need last rites because Dinah’s touch is enough blessing in itself and because the conviction and love in Dinah’s voice surely holds enough power to raise the dead. </p><p>Helena nods, says, “I won’t,” and it comes out raspy and faint.</p><p>“Good.” She still looks worried, telling Renee to drive faster and getting a string of curses in reply, and Helena wants to reach up and smooth the worry lines away — Dinah still looks pretty, even worried and covered in sweat and grime and probably blood too — but her arms are too heavy, so she settles for just gazing up and trying not to breathe too deeply, because it hurts when she does, and even when her vision starts to go dark at the edges Helena doesn’t look away.</p><p> </p><p>Helena’s awakened when she feels the mattress dip beside her and a warm hand come to rest on her forehead. </p><p>“Hey,” comes Dinah’s voice from above her, and Helena opens her eyes. </p><p>“Hi.” She winces at the dryness of her throat, and immediately Dinah holds up a glass of water with a pink curly straw sticking out of the top. </p><p>“Thanks,” Helena says once she’s drained half the glass, and Dinah nods.</p><p>“How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Not bad, considering.” She runs a hand over the bandages covering half her side, feeling the vague itch of stitches and a dull ache radiating from the center of the wound, and Dinah catches Helena’s hand in her own, tangling their fingers together to keep her from prodding the bandaging any more and giving her a crooked smile. </p><p>“You scared the shit out of me, babe,” Dinah tells her, the crinkle of worry returning between her brows. “I need you around, you hear?”</p><p>“Alright,” Helena agrees, even though she knows she’d take that blade a hundred times over to keep Dinah safe — but when Dinah bends down and kisses her gently, Helena wants nothing more than to live, to love Dinah in all the ways she can, because nothing could be greater than that. </p><p> </p><p>Helena had never understood Adoration, not really — her mind would always wander too much to focus on prayer when she was younger, and once she got to Sicily, it was rare that she went. When she did, it always felt like a waste of time better spent training and running through drills than kneeling in a dusty chapel, staring up at the host displayed on the altar and willing words of prayer to come. The old women of the village would sit for hours there, serene and intently focused, whereas Helena would fidget and count down the minutes until she could leave without feeling guilty for it. </p><p>But she understands, now, how one could spend hours in silence and contemplation, eyes fixed forward and unmoving, because when the first rays of sunlight edge into the bedroom and illuminate the soft planes of Dinah’s face, Helena knows she’d be happy here forever, happy to do nothing more than just exist in the presence of the woman she loves. </p><p>Helena’s rosary is in the nightstand drawer, where it’s been for weeks now — she’s learned new ways to pray. There’s a certain holiness in the way she can tell Dinah <em> I love you, </em>the words coming naturally now even after years they were unspoken and unneeded, and in the way her own name sounds on Dinah’s lips, in every touch, in every look they share.</p><p>“Good morning,” Helena murmurs when Dinah stirs and blinks awake, eyes landing on Helena as a sleepy smile grows on her face. </p><p>“Morning, beautiful,” Dinah says softly, propping herself up on her elbow and running her hand through Helena’s hair, combing the tangled curls away back from her forehead and then cupping Helena’s chin. Her thumb strokes over Helena’s face before she guides Helena forward, and the kiss is sweeter than any communion wine Helena can remember. Almost unconsciously, Helena’s hands rise up to steady her, brushing the hem of her camisole and settling against bare skin.</p><p>Their bedroom is filled with golden sunlight, and Helena rests her palms on either side of Dinah’s waist. She closes her eyes and holds on with both hands, awed and reverential, and lets the sweetness fill her mouth and her entire being and thinks <em>amen, amen.</em></p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading! i'd love to hear what you think.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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